Broken Chances
by Amethyst-Flame13
Summary: It's been two weeks since Bucky Barnes plunged into the cool depths of the river to pull out the stranger who called him friend. Now, he stands outside a two-story home, a crumpled address held in his hand. He needs a place to rest, if only for the night, and she looked nice in the picture. Friendly. And, Bucky thinks, he could really use a friend right now, even for a few hours.
1. The First Night

_**Summary:**_

 _It's been two weeks since Bucky Barnes jumped out of the helicarrier, plunging into the cool depths of the Potomac to pull out the stranger who called him friend. Now, he stands outside a two-story home, a crumpled address held tightly in his hand. He needs a safe place to rest, if only for the night, and she looked nice in the picture. Friendly._

 _And, Bucky thinks, he could really use a friend right now, even if it is just for a few hours._

 **This is my first story on ff, although this story is also available on AO3. The mistakes are about all I own (everyone, with the exception of Amelia, belongs to MARVEL) so please don't sue. The writing style in the beginning is a little scattered. It's meant to be. Bucky starts off the story, and he's not in a great place. You'll see his thoughts start to come together more as the story progresses.**

* * *

James Buchanan Barnes glances at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. 513 E. River Road, Eddisburg, Pennsylvania. The small town was easy to reach, even if it had taken all night to walk here. It's still dark, only the streetlights lining the streets providing any light at all as he stood outside the small home. Two stories high with a small attic on top, large bay windows in the front, the exterior painted a dark blue with white trim. There was a front porch. A swing. The only thing missing was the picket fence.

Not perfect, as far as defensible positions went, but he's worked with worse.

The only light coming from inside is from a dim bulb in what is likely the main bedroom. The rest of the home is dark. It's early; the woman inside will still be asleep. Still, he needs somewhere to go. He pulls his bag a little higher on his shoulder, and slips around back. Fewer people to see. He brings up his hand and raps sharply against the wood. It's cold, the early spring wind beating at him, and he needs to get inside. Needs to get warm.

He needs rest.

When there is no response, he knocks again. After another moment, a light flickers to life, shining from the same upstairs window, illuminating part of the small yard. Another minute passes and the porch light above him turns on. He instinctively steps back, hiding in the shadows. It's a habit that he can't seem to shake, even if it has been two weeks since he jumped from the helicarrier, crashing into the water to save the man who had called him friend.

Finally, the door opens. The woman standing on the other side looks like her picture- long brown hair, brown eyes wide as she looks up at him. She is wearing a thick robe and fuzzy blue slippers. A few inches of red flannel pajama pants stick out the bottom of the robe. His gaze travels back up. He can see the fear on her face, and he fights the urge to take another step back.

"Can I help you?" He watches as one hand goes into her pocket, and he hears the click as the safety is taken off of her gun.

He swallows painfully, fear clouding his thoughts. That happens a lot now. He doesn't think that it used to; the emotion is unfamiliar. Still, the woman is standing there, armed, and he doesn't want to hurt her.

"There was a picture. I saw you with him. I need- I need-" He cuts off, his thoughts skittering away again.

"What picture?"

Ah. That he can provide. He reaches into a pocket, slowly when he notices her tense up, and pulls out the page he'd ripped from a magazine. He holds it out with his metal hand, and she looks at it, eyes going wide again. She ignores the paper, but takes a small step towards him.

"Come into the light," she invites, removing her hand from her pocket and holding both where he can see them. Surrender? No. Telling him that she means no harm. Hard to tell the difference. Almost everyone surrendered, before. He thinks he likes this better.

His heart is pounding. Fear never leaves him now, even though he doesn't remember what he's so afraid of. He's pretty certain that he can handle most physical threats. He shuffles forward, and she gasps.

"Bucky?"

He freezes, and the picture falls from numb fingertips. That's what the Captain called him. His...friend. _Do you know me? Who am I? What am I?_ The questions scramble for purchase in his confused mind, but only one makes it out.

"Do you know him?" he asks, gesturing to the fallen paper. She scoops it up, a faint smile on her face when she sees the picture there.

"The night of Tony's opening gala," she explains. "He was too shy to ask anyone to dance."

The smile softens her face, easing away some of the fear. Bucky shuffles a few inches towards the porch light, his eyes never leaving her face as she stares down at the picture.

There were 135 articles about Steve in the DC library. He looked at half of them, scanning the words and images for anything that felt _right_. There was nothing; only more emptiness where memories should be. This picture was from the coverage of the Opening Gala for the new Avengers tower in Manhattan. Steve was standing a bit too close to the woman, and he could read the surprise on both of their faces. But she was smiling, and so was he.

And that smile. Something inside of him stirred, like a tiny part of his soul starting to wake up again. It wasn't the same smile Steve showed the reporters or photographers. There was nothing practiced or fake about it. This was the first picture he'd seen where the man looked genuinely happy.

So, the Asset took a closer look at the woman in his arms, trying to figure out what made her so special. Her name is printed below the image. Amelia Cassidy.

The woman looks up, her gaze questioning. "You found me from this? Why?"

He just stands there, looking down. His hand is still shaking, so he tightens it into a fist at his side. "The Captain. He- I'm-"

He looks up, eyes flickering up to meet hers before flinching away again. A moment passes, and she steps back, holding the door open.

"You should come in. Are you hungry?"

Five minutes later, he's sitting at a table, a bowl of something that looked and smelled familiar sitting before him. Beef stew, she'd called it. It was good. Better than the nutrition packets he got at HYDRA. A glass of milk was positioned to the side of the bowl. His. This is an important distinction; he remembers the last time, when the offer of milk didn't mean anything. The woman sat across from him, trying to watch him without being noticed.

When he first entered her home, she led him straight to the kitchen and directed him to sit at the small center island, as she started rummaging around through the fridge, seemingly unconcerned with the assassin sitting at her back. She pulled out a large bowl, popped it into the microwave, and poured a glass of milk, sliding it over to him. He doesn't acknowledge it, eyes focused on the pattern in the grain of the wooden island countertop. The microwave beeps, and he tries not to jump. Moments later, there is a bowl of hot food before him, and he finally looks up.

She is quiet until the bowl is almost gone, and he has adjusted to her curious gaze.

"Steve thinks you left the country," she says at last. "When he woke up in the hospital, he told me what happened. He said that you saved him."

He looks up, and then his gaze moves beyond her, to something outside her window. "He was drowning. I pulled him out."

"And then you went into hiding?"

"Can't let them find me. I can't go back." His heart started pounding. Fear. The woman notices, reaches out, sets a soft hand over his. Her fingers curl around his, and he freezes, every sense focused on the sensation of skin on skin. It grounds him, pulling him back to the now. She is not hurting him, nor trying to defend herself, so the touch is unexpected. Unfamiliar.

Nice.

Slowly, his eyes watching her for any reaction, he turns his hand over, until their palms are flush against each other. She meets his gaze, and he doesn't see fear.

He jerks his hand away, and turns his attention back to the food before him, hearing her sigh. A moment later, she speaks again.

"What should I call you? James? Bucky? Sergeant Barnes? Do you have a preference?"

"They called me the Asset."

"No, I mean your name."

He stares at the cubes of beef, as if they might procure the answer she's looking for. They don't. "They just called me the asset. Or the soldier." He is a tool, a weapon. Weapons don't have names. Except, that isn't quite right; he has a faint memory of a sniper rifle called Tina, can almost remember the feel of her in his hands.

"Do you remember anything from your life before?"

Flashes come to him. A scrawny kid. A war. A fall. "No," he says. "Only… The Captain. Steve. He said that we were friends." _End of the line_.

Amelia smiles again, but it's sadder this time. "I can call him. He'll be here before the sun rises."

This scares him more than anything, not that he understands why. "No!" She jumps, and he quiets his voice. "Please. Not yet."

"Can I at least let him know that you're okay?"

"No." Because he's not. Not okay at all. That much, at least, he knows.

"Do you want me to tell you what he's told me?"

He glances up then, his eyes feeling wet. "There was a sign, with a man that looked like me. James Barnes. But he died."

"James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. They thought you died. You fell from a train, dropping to the bottom of a ravine. They don't know how you survived. Steve thinks that it might have something to do with the experiments they did when HYDRA first captured you."

The fall. The terrible fall that haunts his nightmares. It really happened. 'Grab my hand!' He still wakes up screaming, haunted by a pair of blue eyes and a hand reaching for his.

"Do you want more?" Amelia asks, gesturing to his bowl. He nods, so she takes it, refills it, and then hands it back. She sits back down when she is finished, giving him a faint smile.

He sits back, watching her. This tiny slip of a woman sitting across from him. Standing, her forehead would scarcely meet his chin. Men twice her size have cowered before him. But she reaches out to him. Provides food. A warm home where he feels, if not completely at ease, then at least not unwanted. A bit less like a loaded machine gun that no one trusted their backs to.

He finishes the second bowl in silence. As soon as he is done, she sets the bowl and cup in the sink, and gives him an assessing look.

"You must be exhausted. I'll go make up the guest room, and pull some stuff together for a shower. I don't think I have any clothes that'll fit, but I can wash what you have on, and it'll be ready once you wake up."

He nods, watching her go. She turns back at the last moment. "Um, stupid question probably, but are you, uh, waterproof?" she asks, gesturing vaguely towards his cybernetic arm.

"Yes."

She thinks for a moment, nods. "Good." There's a pause. "I'm really glad that you're here, Bucky," she says, and then continues on her way.

He blinks, and tries to ignore the tightness in his chest. She's a good person, he realizes. He should leave now, while she is out of the room. Run as fast and as far as he can. Nothing good will come of him being here. He'll end up hurt, or she will. The cost for inviting him into her life. But, as much as he tries to stand and walk for the door, his legs refuse to do his bidding. As scary as staying is, he is not ready to go back into the cold. Just one night, he tells himself. Long enough to sleep, to recharge. Just enough rest to see him out of the country. He'll leave first thing tomorrow, if fate will give him just this one chance at peace tonight.

A short time later, Amelia returns. "You're all set. Do you want me to show you up?"


	2. Early Days With a Psychotic Trucker

The bedroom is decorated in soft greens, and the bathroom matches it. Bucky showers, dries himself with quick, rough strokes, and goes back to the bedroom, the towel tied tight around his waist. The dirty clothes he'd left outside the door are gone, and for a moment he panics. Clothes are needed to escape. He remembers that; a naked man with a metal arm would get noticed.

The room is warm and clean, and he is warm and clean, for the first time in what feels like forever. The sky is starting to lighten, and his eyes are growing heavy. Almost four days since he last slept, and the bed is inviting. He slips beneath the covers, and is asleep nearly as soon as he closes his eyes.

* * *

Amelia piles the dirty clothes into the washer. They reek, and she can tell it had been a while since his last shower. Or shave. Or haircut. Steve's ex-dead friend had looked like a psychotic trucker, standing on her back patio.

Somehow, she doesn't think that he'd appreciate the comparison.

Even after everything Steve had told her of James Buchanan Barnes, the reality was nothing like she expected. The man now sleeping in her guest room seemed to have a tenuous grip on reality, at best. She wants nothing more than to call Steve, to let him know that Bucky was alive and safe, to promise that she would look after him for as long as he would allow. She'd been at the hospital when the agent came in to tell Steve that there was no sign of the Winter Soldier. The official story was that the HYDRA assassin died in the wreckage, and that Steve had washed to shore when the final helicarrier hit the water, the resulting wave strong enough to push him towards safety.

Steve knew better. He'd started his search a week ago, determined to bring home the friend he'd lost more than seventy years ago. And Amelia just had one hell of a break-through in the hunt.

But Bucky had asked for her discretion, so she would give him the time he needed. And if he needed a quiet place to get himself back together, well, she would give him that, too. Eddisburg was a small town, more than two hours from the hustle and bustle of the Capital. She'd moved here from Manhattan almost five years ago, frantically seeking an escape from the sounds and memories of the city. A last-ditch attempt to start over.

Desperation is something she understands. Really, there was no option other than to invite Bucky into her home. Someone had done the same for her once, and she owes this kindness to the universe as much as she owes it to Steve.

So she washes Bucky's clothes, and orders him some more online. She tidies up her home, taking care of the clutter that she never notices until company shows up, and then she grabs her purse, a pad of paper, and a pen, scribbling a quick note before she runs out to grab some more supplies. She comes home two hours later with groceries, and few pairs of boxers, and a few bags of personal care products and other supplies. She also picks up a couple of pizzas for lunch.

As soon as everything is put away, she slips up the stairs, Bucky's clean laundry tucked under one arm. It's going on 11:30, and while she has no intention of waking him, she also wants to make sure he can find his clothes when he does get up.

She pauses outside the door and listens. There is no noise, so she knocks lightly and then opens the door just enough to go inside.

Bucky lays on his side, the blankets caught around his waist and his flesh-and-bone hand curled into the pillow by his face. Amelia moves closer, finally getting her first real look at him in the light coming through the windows. Sleeping, he looks younger, and she sees her first hint of the man Steve is fighting to save. There's something vulnerable there, even after seventy years of hell, and something else, some hidden strength that not even HYDRA could destroy.

The rest of his body tells a different story. Scars cover the space where his metal arm meets his shoulder, with a few more scars tracing along his back. He is muscular, but too thin, like he hadn't eaten well in the weeks he'd spent free from HYDRA, and was likely under-fed during his time under their control. Her heart breaks. How many horrors had he witnessed in his time with them? How much had he suffered?

As if to answer her question, Bucky mumbles in his sleep, his hand tightening on the pillow. A pained expression flickers across his face. His breath comes in and out in sharp pants, and he curls inwards, protecting himself from harm.

"Bucky?" She calls softly. When there is no response, Amelia takes another small step forward. She knows well enough not to touch him, but she'd be damned if he suffered through this alone. She calls his name again, louder this time. "Bucky, it's just a dream. Wake up."

He shoots up in the bed, wide eyes wet, his chest heaving. Amelia doesn't move, afraid to startle him. After a moment, his gaze turns to her, the expression falling off his face. For a chilling second, she sees exactly what his opponents have faced for decades. He is every bit the Winter Soldier, and it's terrifying. He slides from the bed, and she takes several steps back, stopping when her back hits the wall.

"Bucky? It's Amelia." Her hands grasp instinctively for purchase along the wall, desperate to either escape or get through to him. "You're in my home. You're safe. You won't ever have to go back to them. You're okay."

He stops just inches away, eyes dark and unreadable as he stares at her. His lips set into a thin line and his metal hand slips over her neck, slowly tightening as he lifts her against the wall. The metal scrapes against her skin as she swallows. Amelia fights the impulse to resist; it wouldn't do her any good. She has no defense against him anyhow, and how many times have his victims struggled? It's exactly what he's expecting. If she wants to survive, she has one chance. Instead of fighting against him, she brings a hand up to the soldier's face, gently setting it along his cheek. "Bucky, you're safe," she whispers. Even that is a struggle, taking the last of her breath. Her arm feels heavy, and her vision is starting to darken, but as her thumb moves across his cheek, Bucky stops tightening his hand. A glimmer of confusion flashes in his eyes. Confusion gives way to horror. He drops her, scurrying away as quickly as his legs can carry him. Amelia slips to the floor, her back still pressed to the wall, as she sucks air back into her lungs. Her neck hurts, bruised, and scraped raw and bloody where the joints of his fingers caught against her skin. She barely notices when Bucky slips into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Amelia stays on the floor, breathing deeply to push back the panic. Tears threaten to fall, and she blinks them back. It was one thing to read the files. Another thing altogether to stare into the face of the Winter Soldier, and see her death in his eyes. She is in over her head. This is a horrible idea. She should be on the phone with Steve right now, telling him to come get his friend. Trying to do this alone is going to get her killed.

The soft sound of movement in the bathroom catches her attention. Bucky. The look of horror in his eyes comes back to her, and she curses under her breath. She can panic later; he's still in her home, still her responsibility, and she thinks that he is probably even more scared than she is. Amelia pushes to her feet, crossing the room on trembling legs, grabbing a clean pair boxers and a blanket from the bed along the way.

She knocks lightly against the wooden door. "Bucky? It's Amelia. Can I come in?" Her throat burns, the bruises and subsequent swelling making it hard to talk.

When there is no response, she turns the handle and slowly opens the door. The sight awaiting her makes her blood run cold, and then burn fire hot. The fiercest weapon HYDRA ever created is sitting in the bathtub, hands tucked around his knees and his face pressed against his arms, shaking.

Amelia is not a violent person. She's a natural peacekeeper, the first to step in and dissolve a tense situation. But right now, she'd gladly take on every last HYDRA agent on the planet if it meant never seeing him hurt like this again.

"Bucky, it's okay. I'm alright. I'm fine." She hears the desperation in her voice, willing to say anything to abate his suffering. When he doesn't respond, Amelia kneels beside the tub, cautiously draping the blanket around him. He grabs the corners, white-knuckled, and pulls them in tight.

"Bucky, I need you to look at me. Let me know that you're still with me here."

He slowly lifts his head. Tears stain his cheeks, and she wants to break something. "I- I didn't-"

"No, it was my fault. I shouldn't have approached you until I knew you were out of the dream. I just-you looked so miserable, I wanted to make sure you were okay. I'm sorry."

He doesn't respond, but he isn't hiding his face against his arms anymore, either. It's a small win, but she'll take it. A moment passes, and his gaze lands on the boxers still held in her hands. She blushes, and hands them over, turning her head as he puts them on. His hands are still shaking as he pulls the blanket back up afterward.

She reaches out, then stills. "Can I touch you?"

He looks back to her, startled, but he doesn't say no, so she reaches out, gently tucking the long strands of his hair behind an ear. He stares at her neck, and she can feel his gaze on the angry red marks there. He swallows hard, looks away.

"Bucky." He doesn't respond. Amelia touches his face, her thumb tracing along his cheekbone. "Bucky, look at me."

* * *

Bucky fights the urge to turn his face in towards her touch, wrestling between needing the contact and maintaining his distance. He's already hurt her once; she shouldn't be in here with him. But, yet, here she is, her voice soft as she asks him to look at her. It's a request, not a demand. He can refuse, her voice says. He has a choice. Bucky is unused to choices, so he turns and unsteadily meets her anxious stare.

"It wasn't your fault. I'm okay," she insists.

His gaze flickers. He doesn't believe her. Can't. The marks on her neck say differently. They say that he should have left last night, should have never come here. Should have never endangered her. The marks stare, accusingly, and he looks away, his gaze shifting back to her face. She calmly returns the look, and then she reaches behind her, fumbling through the cabinet beneath the sink. When she brings her hand back around, there is a small red pouch in it. She sets it down on the side of the tub, and then removes her hand from his face. He bites down against the small sound of protest, watching curiously as she opens the pouch, pulling out a tube of ointment and a box of bandages. The rest pack is set on the floor, but the bandages and tube of ointment stay. Amelia pulls her hair back and secures it with an elastic, and then lets her hands rest at her side.

"Will you please help? It's an odd angle for me." It's a lie and they both know it, but he appreciates the gesture anyhow. She is giving him the chance to fix this, to make it right. She is giving him trust, letting the hands that had tried to break her touch her again, in the same too-vulnerable place. He could snap the fragile bones in her neck, so quickly she wouldn't feel a thing, and yet, there she was, her chin tilted upward to give him better access.

He fumbles a bit with the bandages, laying them out before him before he begins. Then, he retrieves a cloth and soaks it in cold water. Twists it dry. Adds a bit more water, then awkwardly sets it on the side of the tub besides his other supplies. She is now sitting on the toilet seat, still relaxed, and still within an easy reach. He holds the cloth in his good hand, but can't manage to make himself bring it up to her throat. All he can see is the look of terror in her eyes as she fought to get through to him, and the way his metal hand looked against her skin.

After a moment, Amelia reaches out, pulling the cloth away from his hand. Shame flushes red-hot along his neck. He just… Gentle was unfamiliar. He didn't fix things. He broke them. Tore flesh and rendered bones useless. He didn't know how to heal. Only destroy.

But then, soft hands take his. He looks up, startled. Amelia holds both of his hands in hers, meeting his eyes before setting their joined fingers against her neck. She squeezed his hands once and then let her hands fall away.

Bucky stares at his hands against the injured flesh of her neck. One real hand. One weapon designed to look like a hand. He can feel her pulse beneath his fingers. He can feel every small bone and fragile piece of cartilage.

He's shaking again, he realizes, or maybe he just never stopped. Fear and confusion crowd out all thoughts except one. "Why?"

She waits until he meets her eyes again. "Do you want to hurt me?" she asks.

He thinks of the way his hand felt against her neck, waking up to see her dying at his touch. He shakes his head, almost violently. "No."

"I trust you."

He drops his head, mind frantically trying to process. Nothing makes sense. How does she not realize the risk she is taking? He wants to help her, but he also wants to scream at her for having no sense of self-preservation. (And if that impulse feels vaguely familiar, he ignores it.) Finally, he finds a way to look up, seeing nothing but patience in her eyes. He stands, wets the cloth one last time, and then gently- so very, very gently- begins to soothe away the bruising and broken skin. She winces when he hits a painful spot, but otherwise keeps her eyes closed, her face relaxed.

One bandage gets stuck on his metal hand. Amelia opens her eyes at his curse, laughing when she sees the strip hanging, half twisted, from his finger. Her laugh isn't as light and airy as he'd anticipated, but it's nice, and it catches him by surprise.

She reaches forward, clasping his metal hand in her own, and then uses her other hand to peel the bandage away. Her eyes are still laughing as she throws it into the small garbage can beside the toilet. He tries again, and this time gets the bandages in place without further incident. He disposes of the wrappers, and then holds out his good hand, helping her up. She smiles. "I'm feeling much better already. Come on, our pizza is growing cold."

There is still fear, he realizes. He knows that it is only a matter of time before she finally sees him as the danger he is, sees him for the weapon and not the man, and calls someone to collect him. He hurt her today, and he saw fear in her eyes. She should call for the Avengers. Or he should leave. Get as far away from here as possible. HYDRA was looking for him, and he would not let them near her. If he left, she would be safe, from him and from them. It'd be the right thing to do. The honorable thing.

But the Winter Soldier hadn't been good or honorable in a long time. And she looked at him like he was more than a weapon. More than the Asset. Her perception didn't fit with his understanding of the world. It was confusing. And terrifying- what would happen when she was gone from his life? Would he go back to being no more than a tool? If no one looked at you like you mattered, like you were a real person, did that mean that you ceased to be one?

Amelia grabs a couple of plates from the cupboard, and hands him one, gesturing towards the pizza and inviting him to help himself. As he does, she pours them each a drink and gets her own dinner. He follows her through the far doorway, finding himself in a small living room. Outside of a desk with a computer on it, there is only a couch, coffee table, and a television screwed into the wall, with a small cabinet of electronics beneath it. Sparse. He gets the feeling that she doesn't get many guests.

"I hope you don't mind. I just thought we could both benefit from something low key. Netflix okay?"

He takes a seat on the far side of the couch, and gives her a glance. Netflix? She shakes her head.

"I guess you wouldn't know that one yet. It's movies and tv programs. Thousands of them. We can watch whatever you'd like." She turns on the TV, and then hands him the remote. He fumbles through for a while, hoping to see something that looks right. There is page after page of options, an overwhelming number of options. His grip on the small plastic box tightens, until Amelia gives him a concerned look.

"It must be a lot to take in. Do you want to try something that you might remember from before?"

He can't remember anything from before. Somehow, he doesn't think that a movie will prove to be the exception, but he hands the remote back to her, and within a minute, she pulls up a list of animated movies.

"Disney is probably a safe choice," she explains. "And these are some of their older titles. Your choice."

None of them look familiar. He pushes the down arrow, studying the pictures, and finally settles one that depicts a young boy pulling a sword from a large rock.

"One of my favorites," Amelia says with a smile, as she settles back against the cushions to enjoy her food. The movie begins, and he tries to keep his focus on the television, but after several moments, he looks up to see her staring at him. He lifts an eyebrow, questioning.

"That can't be comfortable," she says, by way of explanation.

He blinks, confused. Comfort isn't a need he's had to address in a long time. Amelia seems to understand, taking her hand, setting it in the center of his chest, and then pushing until his is leaning back into the cushions.

"Relax, Bucky. No one is here to order you about, and you're too tense for watching cartoons. Sit back and eat your pizza."

He shuffles a bit, finding a more comfortable position, and his attention goes back to the movie.

* * *

It is, he later admits to himself, not an unpleasant way to spend the day. They watch a couple more movies after the first one, and at some point she swaps the pizzas for popcorn. After they finish watching Dumbo (this one, he is surprised to find, is familiar), she wanders out to the kitchen to start making their dinner. He sits down at the center island as she cuts vegetables, content to watch her work in silence. After a day of relaxing, he finds that the frantic race of his brain has slowed to a more manageable speed. He has complete thoughts now, and they come easier, even if he does still feel confused and shaky.

Amelia eventually gets dinner into the oven and then leaves the room, coming back with a large backpack. It's dark green with thick, sturdy straps, and looks nearly full. She holds it out towards him. "I almost forgot. This is for you."

He warily accepts it, setting it on one of the kitchen stools and undoing the first zipper. Inside, he find bottles of shampoo, body wash, razors, lotion, and other personal care items. He opens a second zipper, finding a package of socks, several pairs of boxers, and a few t-shirts. The smallest pocket holds a pack of pens, a book of crosswords, and a small first-aid kit. There is also a bottle of vitamins and a selection of chocolate bars. He looks back to her, and she looks vaguely uncomfortable.

"What is this?" he asks. Is she asking him to leave? Even though he'd resolved to do just that, the thought that she might want him to go feels like a kick to the ribs. He struggles to keep his breath even and his expression blank as he seeks her gaze.

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as you'd like, Bucky, but if you decide to go, I want to make sure that you're taken care of."

He thinks this might be the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him. "Thank you."

"If you wait a few days, I ordered you a few outfits, too. If you aren't staying, just let me know where to send them."

"Is it- Is it okay if I stay?"

"Of course. I'd like it if you would."

"Why?"

"Because I spend a lot of time alone here, Bucky. It's nice to not have to cook for just myself."

He considers this for a moment. "You have questions."

"Quite a few. But I can keep them to myself. If you ever feel like talking, I'm here to listen. And nothing you say will go beyond me."

He nods. Considers. "Thank you," he says again. It feels inadequate. She just smiles and starts washing dishes.

"There are books in the living room, or you can just look around and find something to entertain yourself for a while. Feel free to explore."

He wanders back through the living room, glancing at the books before heading off to explore the rest of the house. In no time at all, he is back up in his room, a pilfered tablet in his hands. He has research to do.

* * *

When she comes down the next morning, Amelia has her phone in hand, busily sliding her fingers around the screen. He glances over. "What are you doing?"

"Texting Steve." He tenses, and she looks up. "Not about you. He's on his way back from a mission, and is just checking in, letting me know that everyone is still breathing."

He stands, following her to the kitchen, trying to ignore the uncomfortable jolt in his heart at the thought of Steve facing danger without him. "A mission?"

Amelia shrugged. "Something in the upper reaches of Scotland. A bunch of kids came across some ancient artifact, and were causing trouble. I didn't get the details, just a bunch of complaints about how parents are raising their children these days."

"Steve's okay?"

She smiled a bit at the concern in his voice. "Safe and sound. Not a scratch on any of them. Apparently, the kids gave in pretty quickly once 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' landed in their backyard" Amelia sets the phone down on the counter, and opens the fridge. "What would you like for breakfast? I can put together an omelet, and I think there's bacon hiding in the freezer somewhere."

As she starts cooking, Bucky goes back to his borrowed tablet, searching for any possible footage, desperate to see for himself that the mission went well. And if Amelia gets a strange little smile on her face when she looks over and sees what he's searching for, he pretends he doesn't notice it.


End file.
